


Survival of the Fittest

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John is Missing, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John might die here tonight, and that terrifies him. But…if he does die, then he won’t actually have to deal with any of it, will he? He’ll be dead. He won’t care. </p><p>But Sherlock will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

He returns to consciousness, tongue thick, head buzzing, and immediately regrets that he never made it to Tesco.

 

He already knows what this is. John Watson knows when he’s been drugged.

 

It has happened such a ludicrous amount of times since he returned from deployment that he’s not even a tiny bit surprised anymore, just resigned and extremely pissed off. Who is it this time, and when can he go home?

 

It’s ridiculous actually, because he’d once said that this sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life; blokes aren’t just assaulted and kidnapped off the street in broad daylight on their way to get the milk, they just _aren’t_.

 

But he _is_ ; almost on a regular basis. Everyone needs a hobby.

 

When you watch a lot of bad cop shows, people grow to think that serial killers and psychopaths terrorise law enforcement every day. They think the genius James Bond baddies with their exaggerated dramatics, and evil plots for world domination actually exist.

 

In reality police work is tedious; just petty thugs, drunken idiots, and lots of paperwork.

 

But for Sherlock Holmes they _do_ exist, and they swarm to him like bees to honey. Sherlock’s life is seven different levels of insane, and it’s entirely possible that the man is completely mad, because he loves every second of it.

 

It’s gotten worse since Sherlock became a media sensation; he inspires all the nuts to try and be clever, to commit a crime interesting enough to get the attention of Sherlock Holmes. Every off kilter loon in the city suddenly thinks himself some sort of twisted criminal mastermind.

 

People don’t just go out and stab a man anymore, they get creative with it; they string him up by his ankles and fill his abdominal cavity full of live crabs. They taunt the police; try to make it personal. It’s driving Scotland Yard berserk, and also Sherlock to a lesser extent because he says they make it harder to spot the really _good ones_.

 

Sherlock is a celebrity now, everyone knows everything about him. It’s no secret that he’s the best, but that paints a target on his back, because he represents the ultimate challenge; everyone wants to be the one to defeat The World’s Only Consulting Detective.

 

It’s open season on Sherlock Holmes.

 

Not that it seems to make all that much difference to him, Sherlock doesn’t seem even remotely bothered that practically everyone in the city wants to see him dead. It’s all in a day’s work.

 

But this time feels more serious; it has a distinctly professional touch.

 

They’ve injected him with god knows what, and it’s making it hard to think clearly. He tries to move; only to find that he’s both zip tied _and_ taped to his chair. It’s a thorough job; he can’t find any give in the restraints.

 

He rocks the chair experimentally, only to find _they’ve bolted the damn thing to the floor._ Whoever they are, these people clearly know what they’re doing. They know who he is, that he’s not to be underestimated, and have taken every precaution necessary to prevent his escape.

 

His heart sinks; he’s not getting out of here anytime soon.

 

This has to be a ploy to get to Sherlock, because it always bloody is. Everyone in the damn country knows that John is his weak point; that Sherlock will always come for him. It’s very unoriginal, but it works every time, and frankly that aggravates John, for two reasons.

 

Firstly, he’s bloody sick _to death_ of playing Sherlock’s damsel in distress, being useless, waiting for rescue. He’s just a pressure point to jab at for a reaction; perpetually the bait. Everyone treats him like he’s Sherlock’s favourite pet; just a helpful chink in the armour, but he was a _soldier_ goddamnit, he can hold his own.

 

The second reason he hates it is because if it weren’t for him, Sherlock wouldn’t _have_ a weak spot, nothing that could be used against him. He’s a liability, and he puts them both at risk.

 

Without John in the picture he would never have been forced to his knees at St Barts, or continue to be lead on wild goose chases, forced to analyse obscure soil samples as he frantically tried to pinpoint John’s location.

 

It’s getting old for both of them; he remembers one night after a whiskey or two by the fire, Sherlock quietly asked him if he knew how frightening it was to be on the other side of the equation.

 

That conversation was powerful, and it stuck with him. Because John _hadn’t_ known, hadn’t stopped to think about what Sherlock might be feeling. He’d never doubted that Sherlock would find him; _the game is on_ , and all that.

 

Sherlock opened up a little; told him what it was like, quietly staring into his glass. He’d known that Sherlock cared, but he’d never realised quite how _much_ until then.

 

He’d admitted how much it panicked him, every time, having the pressure of saving John’s life stacked on top of solving the puzzle. That dread in the pit of his stomach; that fear, because what if he missed something, or the riddle was just too _hard_? What if he _couldn’t_ find him?

 

That wasn’t fun for Sherlock; it was agony.

 

He’d really felt for Sherlock that night, to think of how much responsibility, rested solely on Sherlock’s shoulders, how much stress he was under to concentrate when it was John who was at stake. It hurt to learn how much it affected him, and he’d cursed himself for not noticing it before.

 

If it were Sherlock in his place, he knew the fear would rip him apart. Mostly because while John had always had the utmost faith in Sherlock’s abilities, when the board was flipped, the facts were that he just _did not have_ the skills necessary to do what Sherlock did. Sherlock would be on his own.

 

But Sherlock had never failed to perform, he somehow managed to compartmentalise his fear for his friend in order to solve the problem. John didn’t know how he could possibly be expected to work under those conditions, it wasn’t fair.

 

It makes him so angry to know that Sherlock is going have to go through all that again to find him now.

 

But there was always the possibility; that one day Sherlock _wouldn’t_ find him. Sherlock was human; there were limits to what he could and could not do, no one was perfect.

 

It wouldn’t be his fault, but that’s not how it would be seen, not how Sherlock would see it. The whole of Scotland Yard would have front row seats for his _ultimate_ failure. Sherlock would never forgive himself.

 

It would be very public; everyone would know that he hadn’t solved it, that John was dead because Sherlock just wasn’t _quick enough_.

 

People would start to have doubts, to lose confidence in him, to realise that he wasn’t infallible. Because if Sherlock couldn’t save _John Watson_ of all people when _his_ life was in the balance, then what hope was there for anyone else? What more possible motivation could he need?

 

It was Sherlock’s worst nightmare.

 

The chair is in the middle of a gigantic warehouse, completely empty except for about a dozen suspicious looking barrels. He does a double take.

 

 _Very_ suspicious looking barrels.

 

John squints, eyes straining for a better look in the half-light; it’s only then that he spots the wiring. It’s a bomb. The whole place is rigged to blow, and with enough explosives to level three city blocks.

 

He starts to worry in earnest now; this is bad, this is very, _very_ bad. How the hell does someone even get their hands on that much shit?

 

How long has he been here? Long enough to start losing all sensation in his arms, long enough that he really, really has to take a piss. The chair is hard and uncomfortable, his legs are cramping and his arse has gone to sleep.

 

Has Sherlock even noticed he’s missing?

 

He’d stormed from the flat in a huff, leaving Sherlock at the kitchen table with some mind bogglingly complex lab set up. There was delicate glass tubing suspended in the air, and dubious smelling substances galore. It was, quite literally, something out of a mad scientist’s lab.

 

He’d been completely absorbed in it for days, taking the utmost care with every measurement, face set and tense. He’d actually used the word ‘volatile’ as he shepherded John urgently out of the kitchen, so god only knows what would happen if something went wrong.

 

John had become suspicious upon catching him sporting heavy duty safety equipment, because Sherlock hardly ever even bothered to wear goggles. He hadn’t understood even a third of the explanation that followed, but he’d grasped enough to know that it wasn’t something that belonged within _five miles_ of a private residence, let alone in _John’s kitchen_.

 

John had been furious with him; he thought he’d made his thoughts extremely clear on these things after the ‘The Great Level 2 Biohazard Scare of 2012’. He almost chuckles at the memory.

 

Environmental Health and Safety had evacuated half of Baker Street as a precaution, and Mycroft had threatened to have Sherlock sectioned; committed for a month if it ever happened again. It had almost started a national scandal.

 

Appealing to Sherlock’s deathly fear of confinement had done the trick. Since then they’d had a sort of agreement restricting the use of deadly chemicals above a certain level of toxicity in the flat.

 

Until now.

 

But Sherlock had insisted that it was too late to dispose of it now a chain reaction had started; that it required constant monitoring. John hadn’t dared to ask what would happen if he didn’t, because he really did _not_ want to know, and his anger drove him from the flat.

 

So with Sherlock oblivious to the rest of the world, and upset with John for losing his temper (getting in the way of a ‘potentially ground-breaking scientific breakthrough’), Sherlock was unlikely to go looking for him anytime soon.

 

So John was stuck here for the foreseeable future; alone with his chair and fifty gallons of explosives.

 

Even when Sherlock did catch on, would he know what he was walking into?

 

It was almost certainly a trap, the threat being big enough that Lestrade would have no choice but to bring Sherlock in. But they may not even _know_ about the bomb, they might just focus on John; treating it like a simple run-of-the-mill kidnapping.

 

He starts putting a picture together. Someone was clearly trying to make a statement, if they just wanted to kill Sherlock they would have done it outright; taken him instead, tortured him, made him bleed. This took a great deal of planning, too much for John to simply be the bait.

 

It was a warning; John had been chosen to make sure they had the attention of all the right people. John’s kidnap would ensure that the Yard’s finest would be on the case, working their arses off to try and find him. He is practically a celebrity in London, and his death would not go unnoticed. All eyes would be on him, the world’s media, even The British Government himself would be watching; putting the bombers directly into the spotlight.

 

They would lure Sherlock down to the warehouse, wait until he was just out of range and blow the whole thing sky high, detonating John right along with it.

 

He’d be dead in seconds, and Sherlock would watch from a distance as the flames incinerated everything in their path.

 

The reality of the situation begins to set in; the bomb explains why no one has been left to watch him. They’ll have sent a message to Sherlock, and he won’t have seen it. When he does, the cavalry will come running in, just in time to have front row seats for the fireworks.

 

Even if he could somehow get himself free, he still has no way of sending a message to warn them, because they’ve taken his jacket; his phone and gun right along with it. It’s ironic that he’d feel the need to carry a loaded weapon down the frozen isle, but in Sherlock’s line of work, you can never be too careful. Fat lot of good it did him now.

 

Sherlock would have known what to do, he probably has a lock pick sewn into the lining of his sleeve or something.

 

Actually…there’s a thought.

 

John remembers the tiny razor saw Sherlock had painstakingly inserted into the side of his expired driving license. It had taken him hours to slot the blade into the plastic without breaking the card, destroying all of John’s _actually useful_ cards first as ‘practice’.

 

Apparently Sherlock bought the saw top of the range from eBay, especially for this purpose; light as a feather and thin as paper, but strong enough to cut through heavy duty rope. It seemed ridiculous at the time, and he’d accidentally cut himself on enough occasions that he’d almost hurled the damn thing off Westminster Bridge more than once. But Sherlock had insisted, saying he would feel better knowing John had it. It might just save his life.

 

“Bloody buggering _fuck_!”

 

They’ve taken his wallet too, no doubt to plant his ID somewhere so it could be later recovered by the disaster response team. He has no hope of getting out now.

 

He’s cursing and pulling at his bonds, only causing the zip ties to dig deeper into his flesh, when something occurs to him that he’d never thought of before, and his body stills. He’ll never forget the look on Sherlock’s face that night; startlingly naked in his honesty.

 

Every single time his life has been threatened, in war, or when people tried to use him as leverage; he’d naturally always been thinking about his death.

 

John might die here tonight, and that terrifies him. But…if he _does_ die then he won’t actually have to _deal_ with any of it, will he? He’ll be dead. He won’t care.

 

But Sherlock will.

 

Sherlock _will_ care.

 

He _will_ have to deal with it when he finds John’s body; scattered in the rubble of a dingy warehouse on the Thames. Sherlock will be forced to live on without him; he will have to stand in the aftermath. He will desperately search through the debris; screaming John’s name, not caring if the ruins cave in on top of him. He will throw himself into the task, nails scrabbling against concrete for some sliver of hope, to turn up only jagged pieces of charred flesh.

 

He will have all the time in the _world_ to think about it. He will have to go through exactly what John did when Sherlock killed himself. He might even be there to watch it happen.

 

This motivates him to start struggling in earnest; if he could only break his thumbs, he might have a chance with the tape and ties, but there’s not enough leverage.

 

He’s Sherlock’s only friend; all he has. How would he react?

 

Not well. Sherlock isn’t good at understanding emotions, or coping with loss. He’d been conflicted and shell shocked upon hearing the news of Irene Adler’s fate, and they’d barely known one another, though it had later turned out she hadn’t even really _died_.

 

Well, she actually _is_ dead now, but Sherlock doesn’t know that.

 

When Sherlock recounted his confrontation with Moriarty on that roof, the only word he’d used to describe the man blowing his brains out whilst holding Sherlock’s hand had been; _unpleasant_. But John had seen the shiver that ran through him; Sherlock clearly found it distressing.

 

If Irene Adler was a danger night then what would Sherlock do when it was John? When he was faced with walking up the seventeen stairs to an empty flat, knowing that this time; John really wasn’t coming home. The thought makes him feel as though his whole body has been doused in ice water.

 

What would happen directly after this, when there is nothing left to be done; when John’s body has been recovered, identified, and sent off to the morgue in a little box? When Sherlock has given his statement and the case is closed?

 

He doesn’t know, and that terrifies him more than death; he doesn’t know what would happen to _Sherlock_. Dying is easy, people die all the time; once you’re gone you don’t have to worry about it.

 

Surviving _isn’t_. You have to struggle through every day; you learn how to carry on, how to adopt healthy coping methods to deal with the grief, trying to accept your loss with grace and dignity. With time that pain will fade, but you always remember, and it _always_ hurts.

 

Sherlock is strong, but he is strong in _other_ ways, and the things that he’s just listed? John can’t imagine Sherlock doing _any_ of them. Nothing about Sherlock could be described as ‘healthy.’

 

Sherlock is reckless and high strung; he is impatient, always flickering on to the next thing. He doesn’t _do_ sitting down and working through things. He doesn’t _cope_ , he deletes. He has an addictive personality, is naturally self-destructive, and his conscious self-preservation scale dips way into the negatives. This could very well be the thing that destroys him.

 

John is his constant. He stops him from doing outrageously stupid things that any sane person would know instinctively _not_ to do; he is the one who drags him down the stairs by his belt loops when he floods the kitchen with toxic gas and passes out.

 

John knows Sherlock was miserable before they met, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him that. He can recognise a man who is desperately lonely because once upon a time; that was _his_ face in the mirror.

 

He’d moved on when Sherlock died, because he was a soldier, because he’d lost countless friends and colleagues to war. That sort of repetitive loss builds up a certain amount of detachment; that may not always be a _good_ thing, but it makes you stronger in very particular ways.

 

Survive, carry on; that was what John Watson _did_ , it was all he knew. He’d gone through it, again and again, and he’d _still_ wanted to top himself when it had been Sherlock’s turn to go.

 

He can picture Sherlock afterwards; his mind projecting vividly forward, imagining what his life will be like from now on. He’ll see all the possible outcomes, evaluate how everything will change in the long run, what the John shaped hole in his world will look like.

 

He can see Sherlock standing helpless in a featureless hospital hallway, rooted to the spot, refusing to sit as they clean the gravel and glass from his extremities. It would be hell for him; having nothing to do with his hands, no puzzle he can solve, holding no purpose or importance as he awaits the lab’s verdict. He won’t leave until he gets it.

 

He already knows. He already knows beyond any reasonable doubt that John is dead, that it really was _his_ corpse splattered half way across the city. But he is compelled to stay, to be close to the action, to wait for a positive DNA identification, he’ll need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

 

He’ll be waiting for his miracle.

 

Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll take one look at John’s mangled pieces and just _run_ , as fast as he can, panicked and wild, unable to cope with the truth. He will flee; just disappear into the ether, vanish from the face of the planet.

 

There will be nothing left of John to recover, not even his eyes; nothing left for Sherlock to bury.

 

John will be ripped from him, and he will be powerless to stop it, maybe he won’t even be there when it happens, and he wonders if that wouldn’t be worse. Sherlock can’t _actually_ cheat death, not when it’s real, not when it counts, and it _will_ be real this time.

 

He’ll come to a conclusion; what will he do? Would he hurt himself? Would he overdose? Will he go out and pick a fight with anyone he can find, walk unannounced into a high stakes drug deal all chipper like; ‘Hi, I’m Sherlock Holmes! What’s that you got there?’

 

He was the second smartest man in London, infamous amongst criminals; he could manipulate any situation to his liking. If anyone knew how to die in London; it was Sherlock Holmes.

 

John doesn’t want that for him. Sherlock killing himself is an absolutely worst case scenario; almost unthinkable. He’d like to think that Sherlock would be fine, that he’d recover and move on with his life. But John has to be realistic.

 

Sherlock has worked around death all his life, but he hasn’t _lost_ people in the same way that John has. Not people he knew and was close to; he hasn’t watched friends die.

 

He’s stronger in almost every other way that exists, he is the prince of surviving, and he can fight his way through any physical pain, any emotionally straining experience. You can beat him, you can break him, you can threaten everything he loves, and he will get right back up.

 

But losing John? John dying and been gone forever? Living without him, not just for a day, not for two years, not even for a decade; but (if he makes it that far) it will be for the next sixty odd years of Sherlock’s life.

 

Can he do that?

 

John cannot die with this uncertainty; he _will not die_ until the answer to that question is a resounding _yes_.

 

_“Please God; let me live. Let me live for Sherlock Holmes, please don’t leave him on his own.”_

 

He fights violently with the chair, and is rewarded when he hears it crack. These guys had gotten everything right, except for one seemingly inconsequential fact; they’d tied him to a cheap wooden chair. He grins manically. As Sherlock would say; there is always something.

 

_Hope._

 

He smashes himself against it, again and again until he’s beyond exhausted. His wrists and ankles are bleeding, and his eyes are watering, but he’s got his right hand free.

 

He works on his legs first; he does away with the tape fairly quickly, but he’ll have to break the legs of the chair, because the zip-ties are too strong.

 

The front legs snap before he’s ready.

 

The world tilts alarmingly, and John has that second of panic when you know you’re going to fall, and can do nothing to stop it. Gravity inevitably wins, and he topples forward, flailing, and with no way to use his hands for protection; his head impacts the concrete hard.

 

The warehouse fades around him as everything goes black.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s the sound that wakes him, shrill and infuriating, pounding against his skull.

 

 _Beep._  
  
_Beep._  
  
_Beep._

 

He tries to shake the noise away, but the beeping continues unimpeded, and the movement leaves him seeing stars. His ears are ringing, and for a moment he is paralysed by irrational idea that he’s back on the pavement at Barts after the cyclist hit him.

 

He holds very still and tries not to be sick.

 

 _Beep._  
  
_Beep._  
  
_Beep._

 

When he pulls himself out of it, he looks up, only to find one of the barrels of explosives is about a metre away from his face. He scrambles back, gripped by panic. His head feels like it’s being split in two, and he’s just managed to place the lights and sounds. _Someone has armed the bomb._

 

John can make out the faintest whine of sirens in the distance; they’re coming. Lestrade and Sherlock are racing straight into the trap.

 

He nearly wets himself in terror, but then he realises with a start that he is the stupidest person on earth, because he is sitting here on his arse, left wrist bound to the shattered back of a chair, staring at a bomb; _when he’s already free_.

 

He wastes no time in rising unsteadily to his feet and searching for the exit, pushing everything else down; he can vomit when he’s safe.

 

He runs for his life, out of the stifling hot warehouse and into the biting February air. He keeps going; racing to freedom, buildings towering on either side of him, still dragging half of the fucking chair with him. His gait is unco-ordinated and panicked, because god knows how big the blast radius is going to be.

 

He runs towards the sirens because there will be safe, and there will be Sherlock. The thought spurs him on and he sprints through the concussion, not daring to look back.

 

He has to make it; he has to!

 

He runs towards them, runs for Sherlock; he needs to find him and hug him fiercely, to let him know he’s alright. All John wants is to wrap his arms around him and never let go. He never wants Sherlock to have to lose him.

 

He loses concentration for a moment, swayed by a dizzy spell, causing him to blunder and trip. He loses balance, falling to the side behind a concrete block. He struggles to get up, to force his wobbling legs underneath him, but his brain is sluggish and off kilter.

 

_Move you idiot!_

 

But the bomb chooses that moment to go critical, and he hasn’t the time to run. There is a deafening roar as the buildings behind him are incinerated spectacularly, and the ground shakes with the force of the immense explosion.

 

The shockwave swoops over him, slamming him back down from his half-crouch and holding him there; blinding heat and energy grinding his face into the bitumen.

 

For about a minute everything is eerily quiet, time standing still in the wake of the blast, he stays put; frozen in shock. That is until the spell is broken; bits of the buildings starting to groan and tilt threateningly, starting a chain of secondary collapses. He needs to get out before he’s properly buried, but he can hardly breathe.

 

He lies there, waiting for the dust to settle. There is so _much_ of it; in his eyes, down his throat, _everywhere_. It coats him and everything around him; thick suffocating layers of it clinging to the nearest available surface.

 

He shifts, moaning as it dislodges the bits of rubble that are pinning him down. Rubbish is littered everywhere, twisted metal and shattered glass, ash raining down from the sky. He’s never experienced a blast that big up close before, usually arriving to treat the injured after the fact; and the extent of the destruction around him is indescribable.

 

There are little fires breaking out in the wreckage, and he just stares dumb-founded, ears bleeding from the force of the blast. He pants, conserving energy, needing to rest for a bit before moving again. God, his left leg is agony, his head is too heavy and he wants to sleep.

 

If he hadn’t fallen behind cover, he’d certainly be dead. Somehow he’s alive and mostly unscathed. He tries to laugh, feeling a bit hysterical, giddy at having somehow cheated death, but instead he starts coughing up a lung. He almost vomits.

 

A cry rings out, and it is every bit as terrible as he’d imagined.

 

**_“NO!”_ **

 

“Sherlock, wait!” Lestrade’s frantic voice reaches him, further away but drawing closer, “Sherlock don’t, it’s not safe, _Sherlock please_.”

 

“JOHN!”

 

Lestrade’s pleading goes unheeded in the depths of Sherlock’s crushing loss.

 

_Sherlock._

 

He hears the thundering of footsteps, and that shocks him into action; Sherlock is here, he’s so close, and he thinks John is _dead_. He manages to haul himself to his feet, head pounding, but not before a black blur flashes past him.

 

“ _John!”_

 

Sherlock continues screaming John’s name in a litany of anguish; the only word he can say.

 

Sherlock is about to dive right into an unstable heap of rubble, consisting of a thousand tons of treacherous concrete, shattered steel and god knows what else. It could all come crashing down on top of him; he’d be squished mercilessly like a bug.

 

He begins the slow limp after him, back the way he came, down what _used_ to be the service lane for the warehouses; now completely unrecognisable. John is infuriated to find that _somehow_ , the zip tie has managed to survive, and still binds him to a shard of wood a foot long. Bloody _typical_. He has never hated anything more in his life than he does that _fucking chair_.

 

He can see him, coat flashing as he tries to find an entrance; a way into what is left of one of the buildings. They’re still about a quarter of a mile out from the centre of the blast. He’d done just about enough to get himself clear.

 

He coughs, and it feels like his throat has been sanded down.

 

“Sh’lock,” He slurs weakly, but it’s barely audible and the detective doesn’t hear him over his panic, and the ominous creaking of metal supports. There are running footsteps, and laboured breathing approaching from behind him, but he has only eyes for Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK _STOP_! You can’t go in there! Please Sher…My god is that… _John_?” Lestrade has ground to a halt about four metres away; hands on his knees, out of breath, and gaping at the horror show that is John Watson.

 

Sherlock almost does an actual pirouette in his haste to find the source of John’s name; and god his eyes are positively _feral_. In this moment he is more animal than man; wild and more ferocious than John has ever seen him. The primitive parts of his brain have blocked out all course to reason, raw emotion bypassing his conscious mind, leaving him to act on adrenaline alone.

 

His eyes lock on John and he just _stops_ , all expression falling from his face, becoming scarily blank; just staring, without moving a muscle; forgetting to breathe, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. John is alive, and Sherlock cannot grasp how this can possibly be so, cannot dare to hope.

 

A moment ago he’d been certain without a shadow of a doubt that John could not have survived, and the sight of him now rewrites everything Sherlock knows and believes to be true. Sherlock’s world has been turned upside-down and inside out twice in the space of ten minutes. It's enough to bring a man to his knees; but not this one.

 

John takes another staggering step forward, wheezing from the soot in his lungs.

 

“Sher…”

 

Sherlock’s whole body jolts as if shocked, and like a switch has been flicked; he’s reanimated, taking off at a dead sprint; closing the distance in less than ten seconds, his momentum hitting John like a truck.

 

His hands are suddenly everywhere, their bodies fused from head to toe. Sherlock is touching, petting, clawing at him; trying to get _closer_. It hurts and John doesn’t even care, wrapping the detective in a fierce bear hug, pushing his nose against Sherlock’s chest and inhaling.

 

_He’s Home._

 

John isn’t sure where _that_ thought came from, but it feels like his brain has been rewired. Sherlock’s solidity is reaffirming, and grounding in his confusion.

 

Holding Sherlock had been the goal that saved his life; that encompassing need to be reunited gave him cause to fight, something to work towards, something to live for, and the smell of him feels like closure, like _victory_.

 

His head aches, and he’s certainly got a concussion, but nothing else feels more important than this moment, than holding Sherlock Holmes in his arms.

 

Sherlock is saying something, pulling away, holding his face, bending down to look at his eyes, hands frantic in John’s hair. He whips out a knife allowing the remains of what _used_ to be a chair to clatter to the floor, forgotten.

 

Good. He hopes they make it into woodchips, burn the woodchips, and then blast them into the centre of the sun.

 

_He’s free._

 

His legs have turned to jelly, and they’re trying to drag him down, but Sherlock is keeping John standing by sheer force of will. His stubborn _refusal_ to let John fall.

 

“John, can you hear me? Are you okay? _Please god; tell me that you are not hurt_!”

 

He _is_ hurt; he’s very _clearly_ hurt, but Sherlock’s brain is just too overwhelmed to make a proper assessment, so much that he’s half way to hysterical. But none of John’s injuries are life threatening, and he’s in Sherlock’s arms; he hasn’t a care in the world.

 

“m’fine,” he mumbles, prompting another coughing fit. He can’t breathe, his head is spinning and he thinks he’s going to pass out. Perhaps he is not quite as fine as he’d thought.

 

Sherlock’s knuckles are white as a sheet as he clutches onto John’s jumper; a strong arm around his waist, clinging to him and protecting him; doubled over and hacking.

 

Lestrade skids to a halt beside them, and he swears that Sherlock actually _growls_ as he shields John with his body, looking like he might just lash out. Greg raises his hands in alarm.

 

“s’Greg Sherlock,” John reminds him; stand down, Greg is a friendly, he’s only trying to help.

 

“What?” Sherlock looks down to him; distracted, in full fight or flight mode, not willing to turn his back to the threat, cloaking John with his coat, protecting him at all costs. Sherlock is _terrified_ , and his mind is spinning out of control; John needs to bring him back down to earth.

 

He sighs internally, he’s tired and he wants to sleep, to get the hell away from here.

 

“ _Lestrade_. It’s just Lestrade. I’m okay.”

 

Sherlock whips back around to face the DI, who is keeping a nervous distance. Greg needs to get to John to have him checked out, but to do that he’d have to go through Sherlock; a daunting task on a _good_ day.

 

This is decidedly _not_ a good day.

 

But John’s words have gotten through to Sherlock, even if they haven’t calmed him down. He knows John needs help; medical care that he cannot provide, and that now for his sake, he has to take a step back, hand over the reins, and allow the professionals to do their jobs.

 

“What are you just standing there for? This man needs medical attention; now!” Sherlock barks it out as an order, and the cry of ‘Medic! Medic! Officer down,’ cuts through the air, parroted by a dozen voices.

 

He thinks vaguely that he’s not an officer, and that he’s not _actually_ down, but maybe he is, because it’s all going a bit blurry; his legs are giving out. Sherlock is still defying all the laws of gravity, holding John up with a surprising strength.

 

He supposes Sherlock would rather see him on his feet, because it gives the illusion that he’s able bodied, that he’s okay. A walking casualty is always more reassuring than a stretcher case, and perhaps the visual image of John’s body lying prone would be too much right now; shattering whatever is left of Sherlock’s composure.

 

So Sherlock keeps him standing, supporting all of John’s weight, and releases him only at the very last moment, only when it becomes strictly necessary for him to be horizontal. John is bundled onto a gurney, Sherlock following with long strides to the ambulance. He doesn’t leave his side, climbing in without the slightest hint of hesitation.

 

Everyone gives Sherlock a wide berth, never daring to suggest that he leave. They act like they’re afraid of him, and probably for good reason; he doubts Sherlock is above breaking a few arms to stay at his side.

 

Sherlock is silent for the whole ride back, he doesn’t even so much as look at John as the paramedics fuss over him, posture stiff, back ramrod straight.

 

They whisk him off at A&E, and John strains to look back and catch a glimpse of him through the glass doors. Mycroft has made an appearance, and Sherlock is screaming in his face. He can’t hear what is being said, but Mycroft looks stricken under his mask of annoyance, and maybe even a little bit chastised.

 

John smiles.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

When John wakes up he feels like he’s been in the desert without water for 6 years. The nurse leaning over him must be his guardian angel because she immediately knows what he wants. She stops him drinking only when he is on the verge of making himself sick.

 

She gives him a gentle smile; he’s well known to the hospital staff, and they like him, even if it means having Sherlock Holmes inflicted upon them.

 

“Take it easy Doctor Watson; you’ve taken quite a beating. I’ll notify the doctor that you’re awake.”

 

Despite being a non-critical case, he’s been given a private room; one the few perks that comes with Mycroft’s compulsive meddling. It’s only when the nurse slips out that he notices the other person in the room. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

 

Sherlock is observing him sharply from his perch; one of those uncomfortable standard issue plastic chairs that always give you a bad back. He’s pulled it about as far away from the bed as is humanly possible in a room of this size.

 

“Hey,” John croaks.

 

Instead of asking how he is like a normal person, or even saying hello, Sherlock just keeps staring at him grimly. He wonders how long he’s been sitting there, lurking like the grim reaper in his big black coat.

 

“I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking.” John quips sarcastically.

 

Sherlock isn’t laughing. His face remains utterly devoid of emotion, but his voice is low and dangerous.

 

“You have two moderately severe head injuries, a fractured wrist, four cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, multiple lacerations, a concussion, and first degree burns. They had to give you two units of blood and nine deep tissue sutures in your left thigh. Do _please_ enlighten me as to how any of this constitutes as _fine_.”

 

‘Yeah, but I’m alive aren’t I?”

 

Sherlock’s face twitches violently like he’s having a mini stroke; blink and you’d have missed it. Most people would write it off as nothing, but to one of the few elite trained in the art of reading Sherlock Holmes; it’s a warning sign, a glitch in the software. Perhaps it had not been the most diplomatic thing to say.

 

His eyes are drawn to Sherlock’s right sleeve, which is rolled up to reveal a telling bandage, his blood type is O Positive; Sherlock gave his own blood for John. It has his eyes stinging with the sudden rush of emotion.

 

_Find some neutral ground to start from._

 

He clears his throat.

 

“I saw Mycroft?”

 

Sherlock scowls.

 

“He was here briefly, yes,” He answers sourly, and does not move to elaborate.

 

“Why were you shouting at him?” John is genuinely curious.

 

“Because he’s an incompetent fool,” Sherlock snaps back impatiently.

 

Ah. So he held Mycroft responsible for not having found him sooner. In Sherlock’s eyes, Mycroft had neglected to fulfil his one purpose in life; because what was the point of having all that power and surveillance if you could not be relied upon to deliver results when it counted?

 

“So what’s new then?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t smile, there’s not even a hint of mirth in his eyes. Usually Sherlock would laugh at a joke like that, breaking out into a wolfish grin, proud of John’s wit.

 

To Sherlock’s delight, John has never bowed to Mycroft’s intimidation tactics, and is one of the select few who has the gall to stand up to him; to actually _mock_ him. No one else can get away with it, no one would even dare.

 

To John, Mycroft is just Sherlock’s annoying older brother, and is not afraid to knock him down a peg or two. And Sherlock _loves_ it; he can barely contain his _glee_ every time John scoffs in the face his pompous self-importance. John’s defiance of his brother is one of Sherlock’s favourite things in the world.

 

But Sherlock is really not in the mood for John’s attempts at humour, and it fails to break the tension like it normally would. John is at a loss for what to do, because that’s how they’ve always gotten through these things; brushing off near death experiences with a laugh.

 

Sherlock isn’t playing this time, instead filling the room with his sullen silences. Somehow this time has bothered Sherlock more than the others, and he’s taking this very seriously. He sits in contemplation, deducing John for an extended period of time before he speaks.

 

“There was a second warehouse. There were dozens of possible locations, but we narrowed it down to the one you were in, and another in Southwark. Both were rigged to explode. It was a fifty fifty chance.” He breaks off, eyes boring into John.

 

“So…?”

 

Sherlock turns his head and mutters something unintelligible under his breath.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I.chose.the.wrong. _one_!” Sherlock hisses sharply, “There was _time;_ I would have been able to get you out before the bomb went off, but I made a mistake, I chose _wrong_ , and we were too late.”

 

“Sherlock, I got out, I’m okay.”

 

“Left to me you would have died.” His words are low and severe, and he turns to the wall, like he simply cannot bear to meet John’s eyes; afraid of what he might find.

 

Does he think that John will hate him, that he’ll stop believing in him? He will never know how wrong he is; John Watson could never cease to believe in Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Sherlock you can’t blame yourself…”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, laughing darkly; it’s a nasty sound, insincere and self-loathing. _Just you watch me._

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Something deep inside of Sherlock just _snaps_ ; and the tenuous grip he had on his self-control is slipping, everything he’d been keeping at bay bursting through the cracks.

 

He springs from his chair, sending it skidding backwards with a screech on the linoleum as he lunges across the room to tower over John. He looks to be physically restraining himself from taking John by the shoulders and shaking him.

 

“YOU ALMOST DIED,” Sherlock bellows, hands clenching into fists.

 

Before he can draw another breath, orderlies are flooding in, backed by security, alarmed and uneasy; poised to wrestle him away from the patient at a moments notice.

 

If Sherlock was anyone else, they wouldn’t have hesitated to drag him out of them room, kicking and screaming. But they know who he is, they’re familiar with his tantrums; but this is the first time he’s resorted to actual _violence_.

 

They don’t _want_ to arrest him, but there is only so much they can let him get away with; they have to draw the line somewhere. John is grateful for their reluctance, because the depth of Sherlock’s anger is beginning to scare even him, and no one wants for this to turn ugly.

 

Sherlock is positively vibrating with nervous energy, threatening and volatile, so much that it must look to them like madness. It’s a wonder they haven’t called the police.

 

Sherlock doesn’t even spare them a glance over his shoulder; pinning John with his stare as John silently motions to them that it’s okay, and they reluctantly withdraw. Sherlock does at least have the sense to lower his voice.

 

“You could have been killed. Because _I_ failed.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes three deep breaths, nails cutting deep into his palms; he’s vulnerable now without the anger to protect him. John has never in his life seen him like this; looking like he might just crumble from the strain.

 

“Was there any more you could have done?” John asks calmly.

 

He knows that it would not be enough right now to merely placate Sherlock; he has to reason with him, appeal to his religiously upheld logic. He’s taking a huge risk here, and he knows it; if the answer is yes then it will drive Sherlock deeper into this furious resentment. He hates to do this, but he’s almost ninety percent confident in his bluff.

 

Sherlock’s eyes go wide at the unexpected nature of the question, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. He hadn’t anticipated that John would challenge him, and the words are framed like an accusation. Perhaps for a moment he even believes that John blames him too.

 

He starts pacing again, violently.

 

“I could have picked the right fucking-”

 

" _No._ "

 

John shakes his head firmly, keeping his eyes hard. Sherlock almost never resorts to profanity, preferring to articulate himself with facts and logic, but right now he’s on a cliff edge with his emotions, and Sherlock swearing is just a further testament to that.

 

“You said it yourself; that was _chance_. Think about it. Was there anything more you could have done to identify which warehouse it was, any more evidence you could have gathered without actually physically going there?”

 

Sherlock grinds to an abrupt halt and just stands there; breathing heavily; arms limp at his sides. His eyes are darting back and forth as if reading; digesting the question, running through every tiny scrap of information in his mind for something that he may have overlooked.

 

“No,” comes the horrified whisper; “ _No_.”

 

He stumbles back, away from John, away from his realisation; hands groping blindly for his chair. He falls back into it, shaking.

 

For Sherlock the possibility that he'd been powerless to save John has to be that much worse, to know that nothing he could have done would have made the slightest bit of difference. But at least he now knows it wasn’t through some inadequacy of his own.

 

“I’m alive Sherlock; you did everything you could.”

 

“It wasn’t enough,” Sherlock moans; he has curled in on himself, hands twisting in his hair, “It wasn’t enough! I _failed_.”

 

“Yeah it was; it was enough,” John murmurs comfortingly; “Did the other one go up too? No? You saved potentially dozens of lives Sherlock, that’s not failure.”

 

Sherlock looks up at John suddenly, and his eyes are alarmingly red.

 

“But I didn’t save _you_.”

 

It’s devastating, how broken he looks, like he might fall to his knees and plead for John’s forgiveness. Because while for John, there might be nothing to forgive, but in _Sherlock’s_ mind he has still lost; because _screw_ the greater good.

 

It doesn’t matter to him that the other bomb didn’t go off; Sherlock doesn’t give a _damn_ about the warehouse in Southwark, and he never did. It was in a more populated area, and people would have died if it weren’t for him, but that isn’t a victory; not even close.

 

Sherlock is no hero; he doesn’t give a shit about the _right thing_. He wouldn’t have hesitated to kill those people at the drop of a hat; he would have sacrificed each and every _single one_ of those lives; if only it meant he could save just one.

 

_Oh Sherlock._

 

John can see it now. Sherlock loves him; he loves him desperately. He can’t bear to lose him, and it’s scaring him to death.

 

“You did actually.” John comments mildly, and Sherlock’s brow furrows, “You did save me.”

 

“No, I-”

 

It’s now or never.

 

“I didn’t think I could get out Sherlock, I thought I was definitely going to die. But then I remembered _you_. Why do you think I fought so hard to get out, why I threw myself at Moriarty at the pool, why I shot that cabbie the first day we met? Because I don’t _want_ to live without you; but also because I don’t want _you_ to have to live without _me_.”

 

It takes a while for that to register, and when it does, Sherlock is speechless. He is swallowing repeatedly, and his mouth is doing something strange, lips twisting and contorting. His face is so open, so defenceless with emotion; it’s tragic, but he’s _so_ beautiful.

 

“I…”

 

His eyes are welling up with emotion, and a tear spills over, falling from his right eye. Oh god, Sherlock Holmes is _crying_ ; he’s actually moved to tears.

 

“Why are you way over there?”

 

Sherlock glides over as if tugged, as if something is physically dragging him to John’s bedside. Sitting awkwardly on the mattress, Sherlock fidgets, not knowing what to do with his hands. John strokes his arm fondly, and Sherlock’s whole body sways, leaning into John’s hand; starved for touch.

 

“I _can’t_ , I don’t-”

 

Sherlock doesn’t know exactly what it is that he can’t do, and John feels for him; the man is exhausted, barely functioning, emotionally drained. He pulls Sherlock down to lie beside him with some difficulty, but Sherlock allows himself to be moved without protest.

 

Sherlock begins to cry silently against the skin of John’s neck, so subtly that he wouldn’t have noticed if not for the tears. John presses his face into Sherlock’s hair and breathes him in; he still smells quite strongly of dust and ash, and hospital antiseptic, but it’s intermingled with the intoxicating scent of that ridiculously expensive shampoo the man insists upon. It’s calming, familiar.

 

“Do you know?” Sherlock hiccups, air puffing against the collar of the gown; “What it does to me, when you’re…?”

 

“I think I have an idea, yes. And I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m sorry you had to go through all that again.”

 

Sherlock huffs quietly, because it’s not John’s fault.

 

“I can’t lose you again John,” it’s a quiet confession, lips brushing against John’s skin.

 

It’s almost a _kiss_ , and warmth blooms inside his chest; he has so much raw affection for this man. He can’t help but wonder what it means, if anything. John squeezes Sherlock’s side for reassurance.

 

Sherlock’s body shifts, and so does something unnameable in the room; something dangerous has started; something life-changing. His spine tingles with anticipation.

 

The potential for this has always been there, hovering between them, just one step away. But fear and uncertainty has held them back, always second guessing themselves, unwilling to make the first move. Now they have reached a turning point, and everything is on the table; it’s within their reach, all that’s left to do is take it. And John is _still_ not sure, they need that final catalyst; something has to give.

 

It’s Sherlock who breaks first.

 

“I love you John.”

 

The confession is a whisper, breathy, and barely there.

 

“I know,” John murmurs softly, “I know, I love you too.”

 

But Sherlock shakes his head in resignation.

 

“You don’t _understand_ ,” he whines, pressing his face into the coarse thread count of John’s hospital gown, shaking with frustration.

 

“I don’t love you as a friend John, I never have; I am _in_ love with you. I love you so much that it _hurts_. I can’t control it and that _scares_ me. At first, I tried not to, I tried so hard, but it just wouldn’t _stop_ , and I _hated_ you for it. I hated what you’d done to me; sometimes I think I still do.

 

“When I died I expected it would fade, but it didn’t, it only worsened; the memory of you following me around the globe. You were there, but you _weren't_ there; because it was never really you. It wasn't real, just a figment of my imagination, and that was the cruelty of it; your ghost acting as a constant reminder of everything I couldn't have. It felt like losing a limb, like my _heart_ had been amputated…and then I came back, but I still couldn’t…”

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and pulls away, allowing John to see his face.

 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, I don’t _want_ to know. I wasn’t certain that you wouldn’t leave, and I couldn’t risk it. But then came the explosion; John even the _sky_ was burning and I thought…I realised you’d never know what you meant to me; so many things I should have said…”

 

Sherlock breaks off, lowering his head in shame. He is laying himself bare, confessing everything he thought he’d never have the chance to say, and John cannot imagine how hard this is for him, how hard _all_ of this had been on him.

 

Sherlock had known all this time that he was in love with John, and he’d never said a word. And he would have gone on that way, indefinitely; living by his side in silence, forever unspoken, sacrificing his own happiness just to keep John with him. He’d have taken that love to the grave.

 

But John _wouldn’t_ have left him, and that’s the worst part. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else; he doesn’t _want_ Sherlock to be selfless and hurting.

 

Because Sherlock had been blind; all his sacrifices were for nothing, all that unnecessary pain; because John already _did_ love him. He’d just never dreamt that it could actually happen, that Sherlock could feel that way; and so he’d fought against it with denial, pushing his feelings down, and smothering them.

 

It had been right in front of them all along, they just couldn’t see it. John has being hurting Sherlock by remaining ignorant to his suffering, but now he had the chance to make things right.

 

“Sherlock, believe me when I say that I love you, and I’m not leaving you again.”

 

Sherlock sighs.

 

“You can’t promise me that John,” he says sadly, “No one can promise not to die.”

 

“You’re right, I can’t, but I can promise you to _try_ ; I can promise you to stay.”

 

Sherlock deliberates this, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, he wants to believe it, but the look he settles on is patronising.

 

“John, I hope you know that this won’t change anything. This isn’t some romantic fairy-tale where we fall in love and I become a good person.” Sherlock is cautious and stern, reminding John to plant his feet in reality.

 

“You’re _already_ a good person,” John argues.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, irritated.

 

“I’m really not. Nothing will change the way I am; this is not a _cure_ , I’m not going to get _better_. I’ll still be awful; I’ll still disregard your feelings and run headlong into danger. I’ll be heartless, obnoxious and rude. There will be times when you hate me.”

 

Why is Sherlock talking to him like he’s a bloody child? As if John hasn’t already lived with him for three years? He’s seen Sherlock at his worst; playing the violin when he’s thinking, and not talking for days on end? They are some of his _good_ qualities, the lying twat.

 

“Sherlock I _know_ that. You’ll still do all those things, and I accept that; it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

 

He tries to stay calm and relaxed, because they’re still on shaky ground, and nothing has been decided yet, but Sherlock is starting to test his patience with his needling.

 

Sherlock sits up and looks at him seriously, trying to create some objective distance between them.

 

“You’re not being rational. You might mean that _now_ , but you won’t always feel that way. It always bothered you before; you _hate_ it when I do those things, and you always will. It wouldn’t make _sense_ for you to just stop.”

 

He’s growing agitated, thinking John is deliberately ignoring the flaws in his argument, deluding himself by imagining some sort of romantically idolised version of them.

 

“Will you _quit_ trying to talk me out of this? I’m perfectly capable of making my own decision thanks,” John barks in irritation.

 

Sherlock glares at him.

 

“I’m being realistic,” he snips loftily.

 

John sighs in exasperation.

 

“Sherlock, you idiot; I _do_ hate it when you get like that, I’m not going to stop hating it. But that’s just who you _are_ , that’s the person I fell in love with. If you didn’t do all of those things, then you wouldn’t _be_ you, and that’s not what I want. I want _you_. Not someone else, not some watered down version of you; _just_ you, exactly as you are now.”

 

There is a long and very uncomfortable pause, Sherlock has checked out and is staring at the wall, eyes very far away. John waits for him to resurface.

 

Sherlock clears his throat gruffly, still staring at the wall.

 

“Right. Well; that’s…good.”

 

John laughs.

 

“Yes it is, come here you mad bastard.”

 

Sherlock hesitates, worrying his lip with his teeth.

 

“John…”

 

Cue the alarm bells.

 

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

 

“I just…I need to know what it is that you… _want_ from me.”

 

John’s brows furrow.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

When Sherlock meets his eyes, John sees vulnerability, perhaps even fear. What is Sherlock afraid of?

 

He takes a deep breath,

 

“I need to know exactly what this is, how it is going to work. You need to tell me, because I don’t know how.”

 

“Alright,” John says slowly, “Well I think it’s best to start slowly, there’s no timetable for these things you know, settle in, get comfortable with the relationship.”

 

“ _Romantic_ relationship?” Sherlock sounds cautiously optimistic.

 

“Well, yes, that was sort of what I was going for, is that…something you want?

 

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. His eyes narrow, “But is that something _you_ want?”

 

“Yeah, of course; absolutely.”

 

Sherlock is thoughtful, guarded, but extremely inquisitive; he wants to get this right, to flesh out the particulars so that he knows exactly where they stand. He always _has_ to know.

 

“So…what does that make me, what am I to you? What is it that you generally expect from a relationship? Is this different, if yes, how so?”

 

John almost laughs at the rapid fire questioning; it’s just so typically Sherlock, treating it like an interrogation, compiling the facts.

 

“I think it’s safe to say it would be monogamous?” Sherlock adds quickly, eyes sharp.

 

John can’t contain his horror.

 

“ _God_ yes; definitely.” The thought that he could ever want anyone else, that Sherlock wouldn't be enough for him is absurd, and the definitive nature of his answer causes Sherlock to deflate in relief.

 

“Thank god for that, I don’t know if I could stand it; you, with other people.” He snaps his mouth shut instantly after saying it, and looks to John, to gauge whether or not that was ‘not good.’

 

John smiles; “Nothing to worry about on that front I assure you, I don’t want anybody else alright? Just you.”

 

Sherlock nods slowly, pleased. But then he sighs.

 

“I haven’t done this before John, I’ve never wanted to. The very idea of giving myself to another whole heartedly, and without reservation…my mind balks at the notion. But for you, I’m determined to try. It may take me some time for me to…adjust. I’m...I'm working on it, just please…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Don’t give up on me.”

 

John’s heart melts.

 

“Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere. Trust me when I say that it’s worth it; _you_ are worth it, even if I have to wait forever.”

 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said,” Sherlock grumbles, pretending to be annoyed, but the tips of his ears are turning pink.

 

“Yeah, well you’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.” John counters, “You asked what expectations I have for this. I want everything I’d typically want from a relationship, but nothing’s ever typical when it comes to us. So I reckon we just start from where we are and just, see how it goes?”

 

“Everything. You mean including sex.” Sherlock states bluntly, causing John to splutter and choke on air like a teenager.

 

“Well uh, I mean _preferably._ I _like_ sex, but that doesn't mean...listen, it's not _vital_ , and if you’re not comfortable with…”

 

Sherlock waves it away nonchalantly.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

John blinks at him. He must have heard that wrong.

 

“I'm sorry?”

 

Sherlock meets his gaze coolly.

 

“Problem?”

 

“No. No of course not. I just…didn’t know that you…well.” Superbly done; very eloquent.

 

Sherlock is a very attractive man, there was no denying that, and though he tried not to, sometimes you just can’t help _but_ notice. Still, it had always made him feel a bit guilty, like a pervert when he caught himself staring at Sherlock’s arse, or fantasising about him in the shower; because Sherlock didn’t _do_ that, did he?

 

Except maybe now he _did_.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock sniffs haughtily, “I do. Despite what my brother might have led you to believe. He’s not always right about _everything_.”

 

John can’t help it, he starts laughing wholeheartedly at the self-satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s face; he looks _very_ pleased with himself; like the cat that got the cream.

 

Something seems to occur to Sherlock, and he glares at John fiercely;

 

“ _No pet names_.”

 

John _hates_ pet names, every time his girlfriends tried it, it made him cringe internally.

 

“Whatever you say darling.”

 

“I will kill you, _slowly_ , and they will never find your-”

 

“Alright, alright, I get it, no pet names. So what do I call you?”

 

Sherlock deadpans.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Oh for- You know what I meant. Boyfriend?”

 

Sherlock makes a face.

 

“If you must insist on labels, I was rather thinking…partner, would be sufficient.”

 

“Partner, yeah I like that; partner.” John nods in appreciation, though it secretly pleases him that Sherlock has actually already given some thought to this, going so far as to choose a title he preferred.

 

“Okay, so bottom line is; I don’t want anything you’re uncomfortable with, so you have to tell me if I’m doing it wrong, yeah? Cause most of all? I just want to love you.”

 

Sherlock’s face softens, and he looks to John with such infinite fondness that makes John wonder how he can possibly be this lucky.

 

“Then you are doing it perfectly.”

 

He frowns mildly, contemplating.

 

“You’re good at this, can one be considered _good_ at loving someone? Are there different levels of expertise; is it something you can learn? How can you be _better_ than me at some inherent state of mind? It’s not fair,” Sherlock pouts.

 

“Come here you,” John repeats, and pulls Sherlock back to him, grinning from ear to ear, and this time, he goes willingly.

 

Sherlock peers at him curiously; lip quirked in amusement.

 

“Whatever happened to not being gay?”

 

John heaves an exaggerated sigh.

 

“Oh for- There are more than two sexualities Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock looks stumped for a moment, and John savours the particular satisfaction that only comes from having blind-sighted Sherlock Holmes. The man emits a sort of _oh_ sound, like this is some great revelation, and his eyes light up; John has managed to surprise him.

 

Sherlock is giving him his ‘Grinch’ smile, the one he always wears when either someone is about to be brutally murdered, or John has done something brilliant.

 

“What?”

 

“You, it’s always you; John Watson, you keep me right.”

 

And with that; Sherlock kisses him.

 


End file.
